


I want to do bad things to you

by caycep



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: A whole lot of blood and violence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Cat grant (mention only), Character Death, Dubious Consent, Gen, Mon-El (Supergirl TV 2015) Bashing, Mon-el doesn't understand the basics of consent, Murder, One-Sided Attraction, anti-karamel, anti-mon-el, lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caycep/pseuds/caycep
Summary: AKA the one where Mon-el gets what's coming for him.Originally inspired by this post http://damelola.tumblr.com/post/161141375795/redkrypto-inspiration.I took the idea and I ran with it.





	I want to do bad things to you

  
  


I look down at my hands and see red. They feel wet, slick, dripping. Red in the drops falling to the floor. Red on my legs, my arms, my shirt. Red is everywhere and all around me; it creeps at the edges of my vision, it slithers up my wrists and worms its way behind my neck. Then the smell hits me all at once, ferrous and sharp, sickeningly sweet. _So much blood_.

My stomach heaves as the senses are flooded, I sprint a few paces forward, heading for the toilet, and slip on the slick tiles of the bathroom. _Fuck_. One knee to the floor, I close the distance between my face and the bowl. I spit and I cough, shaking as I hold my hair with one hand, the other steadying me as best I can. Bloody handprint on the seat cover. _Don’t look._ I throw up, saliva and bits of dinner, acid, more blood. _I said don’t look._ I’m shaking so much I can’t even tell if I’m drooling or crying or none of it. _Just. Don’t. Look._

Closing my eyes, to abide the hallowed rule, I reach the edge of the tub, climb inside. The porcelain feels cold on my skin, cold and silent and soothing. I slump down and hug myself, grab my shoulders. _I’m fine, I’m alive_ I repeat, and the words feel empty: a shell, the husk of a meaning, fragile and synthetic.

I rock back and forth, knees to my chest, too terrified to do anything else. If I keep my eyes closed for long enough this horrible nightmare will fade away. _As long as I don’t look._ A shudder, a small gust of wind rattles the rings of the shower curtain. I can feel the air on my skin, I can feel the calming breeze. It lulls me with its shaky breath, it seems to whisper: _It’s ok, you’re safe now. Just don’t. Fucking. Look._

***

I always thought that falling in love was a gradual process, you know? You choose a suitable candidate and go on a couple of dates. Progressively develop a taste for the idiosyncrasies. Proceed to subtly nudge each other in the correct direction. You have to make concessions, amendments, but such is life. The perfect person doesn’t exist.

“Kara open the door!” The banging is completely unnecessary. The sound of fists hitting the door in a steady cadence reverberates in the air, hits me like a slap in the face every time. One, two, three, pause. More banging.

“I know you’re in there! Just open the door, please, I want to talk to you.” I hold my forehead up with two fingers, my patience running dangerously low, and try to calculate the probability that Mon-el will give up and leave. Not very likely.

“Okay, okay”, I say taking a few steps forward. As soon as I turn the lock, the door swings open in a sudden motion. I regret my decision already.

Mon-el looks positively distressed. I know (because I know) that he has been rehearsing whatever comes next a million times in his head. He has this perfect theatre up there, all of us in his life as docile puppets, playing our part in his grotesque fiction.

“You said you wanted to talk to me?” Arms crossed, I try my best at a disinterested look, I know I will fail because I’m nervous, _he makes me_ _nervous_.

It’s been a series of mismatched circumstances ever since we met. The very first thing he did was try to kill me. I remember his hands on my throat. I remember the air pushed out of my lungs and how I gasped, feet dangling in the air, surprised more than scared, really. When I look at his hands now I still feel them there, the ghost of a memory, strangling me. As I said, he makes me nervous.

But I’m me, and I can only try to see the good in him.* *He is from Daxam, yes, but who am I if I fall victim to the prejudice here? He seems more concerned with getting laid than helping people with his powers, but again, who am I to judge? I’ve had years to play stranger in a strange land. He’s made significant progress, considering. He no longer tries to choke me to death. He brings me smiles and promises. He shows up in the middle of the night banging his fists on my door. He says he loves me.

“I love you, Kara” he says, taking steps towards me. I let my arms fall to my side, clench my fists in a defensive stance.

“You… you’ve said it before.” A few hundred times, in fact. There’s a whole WhatsApp conversation to prove it. Was it his idea to go for persistence when I broke it off? Or is this another one of those pop culture suggestions? Did he ask Reddit for advice?

“My reasons haven’t changed. It’s as simple as that. You lied to me.” I don’t know what else to say. I think we have exhausted all possible avenues of conversation on this topic. He lied to me. He lied about being the prince of Daxam, about _literally owning slaves_. He lied about perpetrating a whole world of injustice. How can we ever get back from that?

“Who I am today…” he says, getting closer, reaching for me “I owe it all to you. I was a terrible person before I met you. You are right to despise him, but that’s not me Kara. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“You inspired me to change, to become a hero. Your honesty gave me such hope! I am deeply humbled that you accepted me into your heart, and I hate myself for wasting that chance.” He covers my hands in his, and I feel the heat radiating from his skin, clinging like slimy tentacles “For the life of me I will make it right, I will fix it, I promise-”

“I’ve had enough of your promises, Mon-el, you know I have-”

“Let me talk!” He strengthens his grip “I know, I am _sure_ you can still see the good in me. What we had before you found out about my parents, about me… it was real, it’s still there. You just have to look inside your heart and you’ll see that you _love me too_.”

That’s all it took, really. Somebody came along and told me “You love me”. Somebody gave me a direction and a purpose, a well in which to pour all the love I kept pent up inside. Somebody who, after a lifetime of giving, would teach me to receive. What it felt like to bask in the shine of attention; the crave, maddening and sad, when the attention dwindled and faded.

They told me love was _this_ , it was the struggle, the endurance of embarking on a long journey, that it was like climbing a mountain and that once at the top we’d both be stronger for it.

“You were never going to tell me. You were going to live your whole life pretending to be some _nobody_ , some guard.” I started, the anger mounting inside me as the thoughts formed inside my head “You always want things to be easy. So you cheat and lie and deceive. Not this time. Not my heart. I deserve better.”

“No! I can’t let you go, Kara” he doubles down on my hands, slippery, sticky sweat. He grabs my wrists and holds me hard. I can’t look him in the eye. All I can think of is those very same hands on my throat, closing and closing and closing until I can’t breathe.

“Please, just let go of me” I try to extricate myself from his grip, but he’s stubborn, he holds my hands and then my wrists and I’m afraid I’ll hurt him if I try to shrug him off too violently.

“I _love_ you Kara, don’t you see we are destined to be together? That this is not how it should end?” His hands release me finally and I stumble back. The dinner table. A glass, a napkin, a knife. My heart beats faster and I don’t know what to do. I feel trapped, the space between me and him decreasing by the second.

He reaches to touch my face, stroke my cheek gently. Those puppy eyes, brimming with tears, are nothing but masks of deceit. I know it and he knows it and the reality of it just drives me insane. His fingers on my jaw feel like nails on a chalkboard, I clench my eyes shut and wince. "Why won’t you just leave me _alone_ ". It is my last attempt.

“I could never leave you alone, my love. You and I are one.” He reaches for my lips, bringing me close for a kiss, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck, “You love me” He says, as he pushes my sweater off my shoulders, it drops to the floor.

My protests are meek as I am hounded by guilt, by the sunk cost of a relationship built upon lies. He knows the taste of my kisses. I have let him into my bed. I have let him into my heart already. He has seen what I’m made of. And he keeps coming back, insisting and insisting that we are made for each other, that our differences are reconcilable.

He takes advantage of that, lifting me up on the table, parting my legs. He holds me in his arms like a lover. Looks at me with expectation, hope, hunger.

“You love me” he repeats, his body pressed close against mine. I can feel him hard against me. “You need to let go, let yourself love me”. He kisses my cheek, my neck, my ear. His lips leave a trail of pins and needles, a skin crawling itch. I want to shove him away, get him to stop, but my arms are motionless, my legs blocked by his body.

“I just need you to feel it one more time” he says “I just need you to remember how good I am for you”. He pushes me on the table, grabbing my hips, reaching with greedy fingers to pull on my pants. His hands are on me, his hands are all over. They touch my stomach and run across my ribs, they nab playfully at my bra under the shirt.

I want nothing more than to react, as he slides the trousers off my legs. I want to yell “No, no, FUCK NO!” but thick fog has wrapped around my head. My body is not my body. My body is peripheral, foreign, other. I am watching something happen to somebody other than me.

I can see it from above, I can look down on me like a camera, a security drone. I can zoom on the beads of sweat on my forehead, I can spot the goosebumps on my neck. I observe the lifeless eyes that stare back at me, their glaze mistaken for abandon. I look at the hands, the hands, the hands. The deceiving, lying, murderous hands that wanted nothing more than to kill me all this time. The hands who are fussing with the buttons of his pants, as he looks at her, at me, licking his lips.

And then something inside me snaps.

The restraint, the weakness that confined me until now drops like a heavy rag to the floor. The anger that takes its place is some distant and familiar colour. I can feel it rage and roar inside me. I glance to my side at the objects on the table: a glass, a napkin, a knife. The knife is in my hand now.

***

The knife pierces the skin like butter, it sinks deep into the soft tissue just below the jaw. The blade is short and sharp. I grab the handle with desperate effort, sink it in the pink flesh once, twice, three more times. It clatters to the floor.

Mon-el staggers back in shock, rotten deceitful hands holding his neck, blood gushing between the fingers. Blood is everywhere, soaking his shirt, running down his chest into his open jeans, pooling at his feet on the floor.

I raise my fist and hit him again and again. I want to see his face swell, his bones shatter under my blows. I want to hear him cry in pain and terror. I want to see the horror in his eyes as he realises what is _really_ standing in front of him.

My mind is blank and all I can hear is the soft droning hum of violence making its way through me. My soul is scorched earth. The golden perfect hero is dead. Protector of the people, paladin of the innocents, she is dead. Killed not by this monster, but by the monster he turned me into.

My fists hit him in a fiery dance, a burst of reckless mayhem. Blazing hot embers instead of eyes. I cannot feel anything, cannot see anything beyond the rabid hunger for more blood.

I tower over him now, I am taller and bigger and a hundred times stronger than this sick little boy, sputtering his last breaths on his knees before me. He raises one arm in defense. Does he even realise how useless it is?

As I straddle him he moans in protest. _Where was your sympathy when I was saying no? When I was telling you to please just leave me alone?_ I pin him to the floor and look him in the eye. I don’t have it in me to pity him for the way he’s about to die.

My hands close around his neck, a viscid messy chunk of skin and bone. I twist until I hear a crack.

***

I drift out of a dream where I am falling, I jerk perfectly awake. I open my eyes. It takes a few seconds to discern the chalky taste in my mouth, the stiffness of my limbs, the sticky brown remains of dried blood all over my hands and clothes. I am in the tub.

I lift myself out, taking in my surroundings. Pieces of the puzzle sliding neatly into place. When I reach the door I hesitate a little, stare at the finger smudges on the white paint. Consider never reaching for the handle, never pulling the door open, never finding out what lies on the other side. Then I go ahead and do it anyway.

My apartment is a mess. The dinner table is in four pieces, two lamps lie in pieces on the floor, shards of glass everywhere on the floor. Brown and black footprints. A dark pool of blood reflects the lights coming in from the windows. The knife, almost unrecognisable under the layers of grime. The body.

The body looks impossibly still, like a movie prop, a wax statue. The very notion of it being full of life and emotion a few hours ago is obscene, almost offensive. There is _no way_ that this sorry excuse of a…* thing* used to be a real person. A living, breathing, oppressive motherfucking liar of a-

_Oh fuck._

My stomach turns once more and this time I don’t make it to the bathroom. I bend over right here in my living room and vomit all over the floor. There isn’t much left in my stomach, at least.

 _Fuck. Fuck. I killed him. He’s dead. I’m a-_ my hands shake and I can’t take a proper breath. I breathe in deep and then I breathe too fast. It just feels so unreal, it feels absurd and tragic and _don’t these things only happen in movies?_ They’re not supposed to happen to people like me. I am good people. I am a hero, a hero, I save people, I- _not anymore I don’t_.

I am so completely lost, I look everywhere around me for a clue, a hint of a way out. I grope my face, my arms, my legs for evidence that this is a sick joke, a crazy nightmare, hallucination of an evil cruel villain. Nothing.

No, something. My pants lie in a pile by the couch. My phone is there. Fingers trembling and heart thumping hard, I wrench it from the fabric. I scroll the list of contacts until I find the only name who can possibly make me feel any better right now.

I always thought falling in love was a warm, pervasive feeling. The quiet happiness of managed expectations, serene romantic afternoons. While I listen for the ringing tone, restless me, panic devouring me alive, I realise instead that love is _this_. It’s the impossible longing, the dreadful anticipation, the spine-chilling stretching of my senses forward, outward, up there and everywhere to somehow get to the object of my desire before it gets to me. It’s a race, a fight to the death.

I hear the phone click. A distant voice, soothing, golden and sweet. “Kara?”

“Cat? I’m in trouble. I need your help.”


End file.
